


Snippets

by bleedcolor



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Gen, Possibly one-sided Simon/Martin if you squint, Simon Crieff loves his baby brother, Tags May Change, many more things to come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-10
Updated: 2014-03-10
Packaged: 2018-01-15 07:19:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1296289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleedcolor/pseuds/bleedcolor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ficlets and pieces of fic from various fandoms. Currently including: Cabin Pressure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snippets

**Author's Note:**

> Limited in his nature, infinite in his desires,  
> Man is a fallen god who remembers heaven.
> 
> — Alphonse de Lamertine, 'L'Homme,' addressed to Byron in 1819. The original French:  
>  _Borné dans sa nature, infini dans ses vocux, L'homme est un dieu tombé qui se souvient des cieux._

When Martin was young, he'd wanted more than anything to be an aeroplane. He'd throw himself off any high place he could climb up to.  He launched himself from trees, furniture, and—one  particularly memorable time—from the top of a phone box, each time with a joyful cry of "Catch me, Simon!"

And Simon did.  He'd been seven when his parents had brought Martin home from the hospital, red-faced and squalling.  There had been something different about his baby brother from the beginning.  When Cat trailed after him with imperious demands of attention and afternoon tea, Simon brushed her off impatiently.  On the other hand, Martin's insistence on "aeroplane rides" and knicking biscuits from the larder were met with open arms and hearty approval.  He imagined Martin and Cat might have gotten along better, if not for him.

He couldn't help it, though.  There was something about the pitch of his brother's laughter as he was lifted high into the air, something about spinning until they were both light-headed and Martin stumbled into his arms as they slowed, slowed, stopped.  Simon would do anything to see Martin’s excited smile when he spoke of flying: the way the clouds would drift lazily around him, the magical places he would touch down in before taking to the sky again, as free as the birds in the back garden.

If Martin wanted to be an aeroplane, Simon would have given anything to be the air buoying him up.  He would have lifted his brother into the air until his arms fell off, if it kept the happy light in Martin's eyes.

But that had been nearly thirty years ago.  Martin had long ago accepted that men had no wings of their own and had struggled and scraped and crawled his way into the skies.  Every moment had hurt Simon to watch; he had ached with pride at his brother's accomplishments and wallowed in his inability to share in his joy.  He was no longer needed for his brother to fly.

Still, every time he threw his arms round Martin for a hug, his little brother's ginger curls just slightly too long and brushing his cheek, he couldn't help himself.  Every time, he lifted Martin into the air, hoping that this would be the day he'd relax into it again, that he would let go and cry, "Catch me, Simon!"

Martin might have been the pilot in the family, but he wasn't the only one who loved flying.


End file.
